Each day she bathed her beauteous form in the Mediterranean; each day she devoted some little time to the adornment of her person with wreaths of flowers. She wove crowns for her head—necklaces, bracelets, and scarfs,—combining the flowers so as to form the most wild and fanciful devices, and occasionally surveying herself in the natural mirror afforded her by the limpid stream. Purposely wearing an apparel as scanty as possible, on account of the oppressive heat which prevailed during each day of twelve long hours, and which was not materially moderated at night, she supplied to some extent the place of the superfluous garments thus thrown aside, by means of tissues of cool, refreshing, fragrant flowers.
Thus, by the time she had been ten or twelve days upon the island, her appearance seemed most admirably to correspond with her new and lonely mode of life, and the spot where her destinies had cast her. Habited in a single linen garment, confined round the slender waist with a cestus of flowers, and with light slippers upon her feet, but with a diadem of roses on her head, and with wreaths round her bare arms, and her equally bare ankles, she appeared to be the goddess of that island—the genius of that charming clime of fruits, and verdure, and crystal streams, and flowers. The majesty of her beauty was softened, and thus enhanced, by the wonderful simplicity of her attire; the dazzling brilliancy of her charms was subdued by the chaste, the innocent, the primitive aspect with which those fantastically woven flowers invested her. Even the extraordinary luster of her fine dark eyes was moderated by the gaudy yet elegant assemblage of hues formed by those flowers which she wore. Was it not strange that she whose soul we have hitherto seen bent on deeds or schemes of stern and important nature—who never acted without a motive, and whose mind was far too deeply occupied with worldly cares and pursuits to bestow a thought on trifles—who, indeed, would have despised herself had she wasted a moment in toying with a flower, or watching the playful motions of a bird,—was it not strange that Nisida should have become so changed as we now find her in that island of which she was the queen?
Conceive that same Nisida who planned dark plots against Flora Francatelli, now tripping along the banks of the sunlit stream, bedecked with flowers and playing with the swans. Imagine that same being, who dealt death to Agnes, now seated beneath the shade of myrtles and embowering vines, distributing bread or pomegranate seeds to the birds that hopped cheerfully around her. Picture to yourself that woman of majestic beauty, whom you have seen clad in black velvet and wearing a dark thick veil, now weaving for herself garments of flowers, and wandering in the lightest possible attire by the seashore, or by the rippling stream, or amidst the mazes of the fruit-laden groves.
And sometimes, as she sat upon the yellow sand, gazing on the wavelets of the Mediterranean, that were racing one after another, like living things from some far off region, to that lovely but lonely isle, it would seem as if all the low and sweet voices of the sea—never loud and sullen now, since the night of storm which cast her on that strand—were heard by her, and made delicious music to her ears! In that island must we leave her now for a short space,—leave her to her birds, her flowers, and her mermaid-sports in the sea,—leave her also to her intervals of dark and dismal thoughts, and to her long, but ineffectual watchings for the appearance of a sail in the horizon.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE WEHR-WOLF.
It was the last day of the month; and the hour of sunset was fast approaching. Great was the sensation that prevailed throughout the city of Florence. Rumor had industriously spread, and with equal assiduity exaggerated, the particulars of Fernand Wagner’s trial, and the belief that a man on whom the horrible destiny of a Wehr-Wolf had been entailed, was about to suffer the extreme penalty of the law, was generally prevalent.
The great square of the ducal palace, where the scaffold was erected, was crowded with the Florentine populace; and the windows were literally alive with human faces. Various were the emotions and feelings which influenced that mass of spectators. The credulous and superstitious—forming more than nine-tenths of the whole multitude—shook their heads, and commented amongst themselves, in subdued whispers, on the profane rashness of the chief judge, who dared to doubt the existence of such a being as a Wehr-Wolf. The few who shared the skepticism of the judge applauded that high functionary for his courage in venturing so bold a stroke in order to destroy what he and they deemed an idle superstition.
But the great mass were dominated by a profound and indeed most painful sensation of awe; curiosity induced them to remain, though their misgivings prompted them to fly from the spot which had been fixed upon for the execution. The flowers of Florentine loveliness—and never in any age did the republic boast of so much female beauty—were present: but bright eyes flashed forth uneasy glances, and snowy bosoms beat with alarms, and fair hands trembled in the lover’s pressure. In the midst of the square was raised a high platform covered with black cloth, and presenting an appearance so ominous and sinister that it was but little calculated to revive the spirits of the timid. On this scaffold was a huge block: and near the block stood the headsman, carelessly leaning on his ax, the steel of which was polished and bright as silver. A few minutes before the hour of sunset, the chief judge, the procurator fiscal, the two assistant-judges, and the lieutenant of sbirri, attended by a turnkey and several subordinate police officers, were repairing in procession along the corridor leading to the doomed prisoner’s cell.
The chief judge alone was dignified in manner; and he alone wore a demeanor denoting resolution and at the same time self-possession. Those who accompanied him were, without a single exception, a prey to the most lively fear; and it was evident that had they dared to absent themselves they would not have been present on this occasion. At length the door of the prisoner’s cell was reached; and there the procession paused.
“The moment is now at hand,” said the chief judge, “when a monstrous and ridiculous superstition, imported into our country from that cradle and nurse of preposterous legends—Germany—shall be annihilated forever. This knave who is about to suffer has doubtless propagated the report of his lupine destiny, in order to inspire terror and thus prosecute his career of crime and infamy with the greater security from chances of molestation. For this end he painted the picture which appalled so many of you in the judgment hall, but which, believe, my friends, he did not always believe destined to retain its sable covering. Well did he know that the curiosity of a servant or of a friend would obtain a peep beneath the mystic veil; and he calculated that the terror with which he sought to invest himself would be enhanced by the rumors and representations spread by those who had thus penetrated into its feigned secrets. But let us not waste that time which now verges toward a crisis, whereby doubt shall be dispelled and a ridiculous superstition destroyed forever.”